


Feeling Eggy

by Write_like_an_American



Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies)
Genre: Alien Biology, Alien Sex, Aliens trying to work out how to get each other off, Buglin, M/M, Oviposition, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Trans Character, Trans Male Character, bug kraglin, cis!Yondu, trans!kraglin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-16
Updated: 2017-11-16
Packaged: 2019-02-03 05:40:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12742116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Write_like_an_American/pseuds/Write_like_an_American
Summary: Kraglin wants his captain. Captain wants his Kraglin. Their anatomy ain't the most regular, but they'll figure something out.





	Feeling Eggy

**Author's Note:**

> **A smutty prompt fill, featuring eggy fun. CN: contains a trans male character briefly misgendering himself**

“So yer tellin’ me,” says Yondu, for what ain’t the thousandth time but which sure as shit feels like it, “that I can stick my dick inside yer dick?”

For the not-quite thousandth time, Kraglin sighs. “It’s not a _dick._ See?” He peels open the tip of his outie to show off his innie. Yondu even manages not to gag.

Muscles flex with an airy queef. Kraglin's fur retains its glossy midnight hue, bedraggled though he is from a life on the lam. It covers every inch of the naked A Chiltarian on Yondu’s bed: thick and tufted on his head, but soft as the flesh of an apricot where it lines the sides of his egg-laying tube.

The urethra straddles his slit. Above that is a bump, unhooded and spongey, designed to grind itself to completion against the inner sphincter of a man’s gestation womb.

 _Another_ man, that is. Just men with a marginally different set-up to Kraglin’s, down below.

Anyway. Back to his not-a-dick.

The hole ain’t no bigger than two of Kraglin’s fingers. But, as he demonstrates, tracing the tender, slick-seeping lips, it’s flexible enough to take anything Yondu gives.

“Yer ovi-whassit,” Yondu corrects. Consternation creeps onto his face like pox scars over an urchin, and Kraglin steels himself for the interrogation. “Ain’t that a chick thing? Layin’ eggs, an’ all?”

Kraglin provides the customary answer. It’s stiff, but not from lack-of-practice. “Yeah.”

Yondu cocks his head. His eyes scrunch to piggy pink slices. Eyelids. So _weird._ Kraglin can’t get over them. “I ain’t gonna knock you up if I stick my cock up there, am I?”

Kraglin allows himself a fleeting smile. It darts from one side of his lips to the other, there and gone again. “Nah. Incompatible species.”

He could elaborate – could tell Yondu that most A Chiltarian men don’t have dicks at all, let alone other protrusions. But he ain’t most A Chiltarian men, and why bother cap’n with extraneous information?

Yondu remains dubious. He rubs the slit; Kraglin’s ears twitch and breath leaves him in a sharp pant. But Yondu doesn’t wriggle inside. Just presses there, like he’s absorbing the details: the way Kraglin’s tube shivers happily at the attention, glossed with shimmery goo that's designed to lubricate the push of an egg into his mate…

Kraglin clamps down sharpish. He ain’t being stimulated the right way for egg deposition, but it’s been a while since someone touched him – nails scritching on sleek blue fur, thumb sandwiched heavily against his clit. Hair prickles to attention, from his elongated toes to his bristle-thick muttonchops and the grizzled blue fuzz on his head. He licks his eyes to moisten them, tongue passing over each bright red lens in lieu of a blink, and squirms around the clench in his egg sac.

“Look,” he starts, swallowing the shiver as Yondu moves his thumb in a slow circle, gaze on Kraglin’s face. “If ya don’t wanna do this –“

“Can ya stick it in me?” asks Yondu. He sounds genuinely curious. 

Kraglin frowns. “I mean. I guess? If you gotta hole…”

Yondu doesn’t. Or at least, he don't got the usual bits associated with male A Chiltarians. Before Kraglin can nurture trepidation, Yondu gropes his tube with more vigor. It’s still exploratory, confident but with the full expectation that Kraglin should correct him when he makes a mistake. Which he does, almost instantly: pinching the tube around the base so the inner walls stick together.

It’s strange. Uncomfortable, like getting glue between your fingertips. Kraglin shifts, blue fur brushing the underside of Yondu’s thumb. It’s velvety when smoothed towards his groin and prickly on the upstroke, and Yondu glides his hand back and forth a few times, a leisurely jerk like he’s tugging on a cock.

“Ain’t never taken a fuzzy before,” he says.

Kraglin bites his lip. This is the first time they’ve bedded down together. Yondu’s still his cap’n, and Kraglin’s at that tentative phase where he’s not sure how far he’s allowed to push that boundary – whether it applies at all, behind closed doors.

Certainly, Yondu isn’t being his usual demanding self. Kraglin’s glad. Whenever his captain belts orders, rasping for him to _look lively an’ quit lazin’,_ or _show these Nova a-holes who’s boss,_ or _all fire on my command,_ Kraglin suffers an internal shiver, his eggsack clenching fruitlessly where it dangles between his thighs. If Yondu uses that voice here, in the coracle of cured hide and fleecy pelts that line his cosy nest... Well, there’ll be chunks of scrambled yolk in the furs, and nobody wants that.

“You gotta,” he starts. Stops. He suffers under Yondu’s expectant stare for a full five seconds before picking up his thread, ears flat to his skull. “Squeeze it. Long, uh. Ripples. From the bottom, goin’ up.”

Yondu nods. He sets to the task rather too enthusiastically, like he’s trying to milk out the eggs.

It’s different – for both of them. But he’s trying his best, and the intensity of his focus makes Kraglin hyper-aware of his reactions. And that so far, this has all been a little one-sided.

Yondu’s cock is thick and ridged, covered with solid plates. What they’re made of – cartilage? Bone? – is anyone’s guess. When Kraglin taps a claw against the lowest, Yondu makes no indication he feels it.

Kraglin’s played around with this style of reproductive apparatus before, but usually the owners get fidgety, having his talons in close proximity. Yondu just spreads his legs, piled as he is on Kraglin’s lap, thighs split around his waist and meaty asscheeks blanketing his knees.

Kraglin is stumped for less than a minute. He’s always been an innovator; it’s what had him hopping on the transport first chance he got, outward-bound for the stars. Better take his chances among the scum of the galaxy than languish another year in a life that wasn’t his, a culture that refuses to see him for what he is.

Now he’s clawed to the top of the Ravager ranks – quite literally, when necessary. Only man above him’s his captain. He’d quite like to take Yondu apart too, if in a more figurative way than Kraglin's predecessor – and so he does what Yondu is doing, and _experiments._

His clawtip glides between the overlapping plates. Yondu freezes.

It’s glorious – all that blue bulk, transfixed like Kraglin’s got mandibles around his throat. He gazes at Yondu head-on, hypnotic as a snake, and quests out the tendon, where it stretches along the underside of the shaft. He twangs it, careful as if he’s handling one of captain's trinkets. Yondu likes to prop them around his dash and (as Kraglin discovered when stripping him) hide them in cumbersome places throughout his uniform: the straps and buckles and strips of stinky old leather that wrap him like tarred bandages around a mummy.

Kraglin plucks again. Again, the shiver reverberates. Yondu’s grip on his ovipositor slackens, and his legs push wider – desperately, hungrily, as he rubs his cock against Kraglin’s claw, armor parted to reveal a sliver of damp blue flesh.

Kraglin peers down, past the plates and the steady seep of pre-cum. His compound eyes can't focus, but the cleft between Yondu’s asscheeks sits at the center of each faceted lens.

They’ve got the lights on, although both their bodies cast a shadow. It’s too dim to see clearly. Yondu’s genitals are… _alien,_ for want of a better word, but Kraglin’s fairly convinced he poops. If not, he ain’t got an excuse for hogging the bathroom that conjoins captain’s room to first mate's for half a flarkin’ hour – but anyway. Somewhere down there is a hole. And from Yondu’s earlier comment, he ain’t opposed to having it played with.

Kraglin licks his lips. He pets up and down his shaft, pausing to tweak under every plate.

“You get much outta fuckin’ with this thing, sir?”

Words ain’t doing what Yondu wants them to; he shakes his head instead. Kraglin scratches the edge of an armored scute, hard enough that they both flinch. “S-sorry. You okay? Yeah. Good. Uh. Fraid it might be a bit too rough on the inside of my ovi', y'know?”

Yondu groans when Kraglin dips his claw under the plates again. A garbled chitter follows, Yondu's dirty feet pushing at the blankets, groin frotting flush to Kraglin’s. It swarms from low in his chest like he’s speaking in tongues. So Kraglin thinks until he remembers Yondu’s original language ain’t translator-compatible.

Reverting him back to klikka? Not bad, for a sexual close encounter of the third kind.

“Might haveta change position,” he murmurs, nosing at Yondu's neck. Cap'n's ear piercings clink and chime, too quiet to be noticed unless you're close enough to mist the metal with your breath. Kraglin takes one between his teeth, tugging to stretch the lobe, and Yondu's clicks edge up the octave.

“Here,” he says, rocking down on Kraglin's hairy lap. “Wanna stay here.”

He grinds against him, dick and ovipositor gathered in his fist. Thought's nice, but Kraglin doesn't get much out of it. Yondu's hand is too small to simulate immersion, and that's what Kraglin needs, what his biology demands of him.

Kraglin's identity has always been a point of contention, a snaggle his brain can't quite fathom the complexity of. But he knows that while he's had his lactation glands removed, as well as the head of the last jackass to call him what he ain't, this part – the ruffed ovipositor that snakes from his groin, the globe-filled sac below – is all his.

And he wants to put it in Yondu. He wants it so, _so_ badly. Stars – he's grinding up, bouncing him on his lap. The friction of his fur on Yondu's plates ain't what he yearns for, and Yondu neither, judging by the frustrated navy tinge in his cheeks.

 _More_ growls the pulse in his ovi', the rumble in his chest, the crush of the eggsack against his tucked-under heels. _Take him, fill him. Good incubator. Warm, strong. Will protect young._

Well, that's a little further than Kraglin's willing to take this today. Maybe next time.

Kraglin leans back, tugging Yondu to rest on his chest. It's a controlled descent until the last few centimeters, where Yondu's weight takes over. Kraglin flumps on the sheet, dragging Yondu with him, lungs struggling to fill where Yondu squashes his belly, a puddle of lax blue muscle. But he arches when Kraglin finds the seam between his buttocks – a little sweaty, a little grimy, but no worse than the rest of him.

Kraglin sucks sour air, nose twitching. This close, Yondu's breath stinks worse than ever; makes Kraglin's nose hairs shrivel. He kinda likes it. His claws graze the pucker, tracing the star, finding...

“Huh. You uh. Self-lubricate?”

Yondu smacks him – more a swat really, delivered to Kraglin's nearest shoulder. “Prepped myself already, idjit. Why d'ya think I took so long in the bog?”

The thought of it – Yondu bent over their wash fountain, plunging fingers in and out of an ever-loosening hole – flutters a pleased pulse the length of Kraglin's ovi'. He swallows dry, and though he ain't got pupils, Yondu's are dilated enough for the both of them.

“F-for me?”

“Nah,” Yondu drawls. “Fer Taserface.” Then, at Kraglin's half-dismayed, half disbelieving stare - “Idjit. Yes for you. Purty blue  _guy_ , joinin' my crew, oglin' me like ya wanna shove me up 'gainst the Bridge glass front of all my men... I been ready fer ya a long time, Krags. Jus' waitin' for ya to get with the program.”

Another downwards squirm, another rich moan, punctuated with clicks. If Kraglin concentrates, he can feel the slick dribbling from Yondu's ass: a wet little ring, hot and damp where he rests on his leg fur. His hands settle on Yondu's hips. They shake – but not from fear, or trepidation.

Yondu emphasized the _guy_ a bit much, but hey. They're both still learning.

“I can't ogle ya proper-like, sir,” Kraglin manages, as Yondu leans over him, Kraglin's ovi' stroking his crack. “Don't got no pupils. I look where my head's turned.”

“And yer head's always turned to me.”

“Yer cap'n, it's my j-job to look at'chu, watch yer b-b-back...”

Yondu's hand stills, guiding Kraglin's ovi' to place. He seems a touch disconcerted by how soft it is – especially in comparison to his own cock, which might as well be steel cast (Kraglin's glad he didn't opt to fit it inside him. Whatever Centaurian women are made of, they're sturdier than he is.) “This ain't in yer job description, Krags. Y'know that, right?”

He doesn't have to ask, but Kraglin appreciates it, even if the question's being posed while Yondu's got a twitching handful of ovi', clit set against the dribbling clench of his hole. In answer, he digs his talons into the meat around Yondu's waist, and guides him resolutely down.

Fuck.

That's about all Kraglin's mental processes can manage, as Yondu pancakes her into the bed and rocks in place, head back-tipped and euphoria directed at the solar panels.

 _Him_. Dammit. A Ravager for sixth months, a whole flarkin' half-Standard away from the edicts and binarisms of his people, and he still finds himself slipping, on occasion.

It’s a truth that came to him slowly, evolving as Kraglin did from an awkward, gangly brat who called themselves _she_ because everyone else did, to an awkward, gangly teenager with a vague idea that this wasn’t right. While Kraglin knows who he is, what he is, every so often his birth name swarms up his gullet like an acidic belch.

It ain't enough to dampen his fun. He refuses to let it be. He firms inside his captain, muscle contracting around the lining of his tube.

Can't concentrate. Not on the past. Not on whatever may or may not come next – a swift eviction, an offer to stay. Just on the _now_ : Yondu's body, thick and blue and perfect; Yondu's cock, swinging heavy over his belly, precum edging the plates and drizzling onto Kraglin's dark fur; Yondu's ass, pulling at his ovi' like he's trying to suck his eggs inside.

There's no gestation womb, nothing for Kraglin's clit to prod. But Yondu's tight, tighter than any Chiltarian male. The thought of eggs squeezing through his tube, struggling to pop from his slit, is enough to have Kraglin writhing.

He can't control it. But he's gotta, he's gotta; Yondu didn't ask for a rectum full of soft-shelled yolks. He signed up for something up his ass, something to grind on his prostate – which he's angling to find, feet planted on either side of Kraglin's torso, body arched away from him, two jigsaw pieces hammered together in a way they were never meant to fit.

But Kraglin and Yondu ain't never had nothing go easy for them, not in their entire lives. They sweat and grunt and heave, and put in the effort to make it _work._

Yondu bears down with a crackling chitter of clicks that Kraglin suspects might be a blasphemy. Seed splatters Kraglin's pelt, squirting from the tip of that plated dick. Kraglin's dazed mind manages _weird,_ before Yondu's ass _wrings_ on him, damn near pinching his ovi' shut.

It rams Kraglin towards the edge like he's collided with an ice freighter. His orgasm strains a splintered second away. But he can't – won't – crest it.

He arches, pinned under his captain's bulk, and whines fitfully as his eggcase contracts. It takes everything he has, every ounce of self control, to keep it sealed. His ovi' flexes in Yondu, contracting in a primal need to push _out,_ to fill him. Kraglin is a rictus of agony and unfulfilled _want,_ and...

“Do it,” growls Yondu, sagging low. “Fill me up.” A wriggle, a squeeze, imperious as a king on his throne. He's relaxed; his ass opens for Kraglin, squelching around him, supple as a man on his homeplanet. “Fill me,” he says again, not quite an order – no captains here – but something along the way.

It'd be so _easy,_ and Kraglin _wants,_ but Yondu doesn't know what he's asking for, and...

Yondu fumbles behind himself, bent over Kraglin's chest. It's awkward for all of a second. Then gun-calluses knead Kraglin's sac, feeling the lumpy eggs inside, rolling them between finger and thumb.

“Want 'em, Krags,” he says. Kraglin can't shut his eyes – doesn't have the lids for it. That's why he's so fascinated by Yondu's; how expressive they are, how much he can convey with a sneer, a squint, a low-lashed and wanton plead. Kraglin might not be able to blink, but he zones out until the world flows liquid around him, lights fragmented over his compound eyes like the fractals in a kaleidoscope. Even through the patina of dried spit on his lenses, he can still see Yondu.

Yondu, looking straight at him. Blinking sultry slow and sated. Cupping Kraglin's sac, fondling it gently, underfangs dimpling his top lip as he grins.

“Give 'em to me,” he purrs, swivelling around Kraglin's base. His buttocks will bear the imprints of Kraglin's hipbones in the morning – but the morning feels far away and unreal at the moment, like waking hours during a dream.

He massages his sac for the third and final time. Kraglin can't hold out no longer.

His orgasm is more a relief than an explosion – a coursing wave of pleasure that ebbs and peaks with the waft of cilla, the swell and stretch. His eggs leave him, his brood bulging into Yondu one by one.

There's twelve of them. Average hatch size for A Chiltarian is ten. Two are left unfertilized; they'll be consumed once the others break the shell. Each is the size of a plum, squishy and malleable as Kraglin's ovi' itself. Yondu, relaxed as he is, is the perfect sheath.

They move together; Kraglin stretching to push the eggs out, Yondu stretching to take them. Each little pop makes Yondu's breath stutter, and Kraglin's too just from watching him. By five, Yondu's hands descend to bracket Kraglin's shoulders. By eight, they clench in the pelt. By ten, Yondu bows over him, breath raking rankly over Kraglin's muttonchops, and at eleven, they're nose to nose.

Kraglin can't suppress the joy of it. It's too intense, too intimate. A pleasure that links him to his ancestors, each and every A Chiltarian who predates him, even those who cast him out. He's filling a willing vessel, pushing egg after egg inside, and it's so much better than any of those plastic deposition-pouches they flog at bot-bordellos, even them that light up and buzz.

Yondu's real, Yondu's his. Yondu's clutching him again, the eleventh egg mashed into the tip of Kraglin's ovi', preventing the exodus of the twelfth.

Kraglin can't take it back inside himself. It has to come out. And, while he could pull free and deposit it sloppily between Yondu's thighs, the thought is like smearing yaro-extract under his tongue: stale and unappetizing. He wants to do this – and, from the way Yondu's moving, nuzzling their noses together in a half-kiss, he wants it too.

Kraglin strokes his lower back. Cups the quivering muscle, then starts to knead in time to the pulse of his ovi'. He pictures the eggs in Yondu's gut. They'll never be fertilized – even if they were, by some miracle of hitherto unfathomed Centaurian biology, it would be highly unpleasant for Yondu to have a bunch of mini A Chiltarians swimming around his digestive tract. But fitting them somewhere dark and warm is satisfying enough. Kraglin thrills with the knowledge that this is his captain, his Yondu, who's letting Kraglin take him so exquisitely, fill him so utterly with the chance of new life.

“One more,” he breathes, half-promise and half-warning. “You got this, sir. You got this.”

Yondu doesn't correct him on the 'sir' – too far gone, too lost in the moment. He's come down from his high; everything must be sensitized past the point of stinging. But at Kraglin's gruff words, he melts. Lips brush for the barest moment before Kraglin _pushes,_ and Yondu twists aside and muffles his wail in the pillow.

A rip. Harsh, loud. For a horrible moment he thinks it's Yondu. He's forced it too far; Centaurians just ain't as elastic as their furred cousins from the Andromeda galaxy. But then he glances to his other side, away from Yondu's screwed up, silent yell, to where his right fist quivers, filled with a strip of torn bedding.

His ovi' sags limp inside him, clit throbbing from the repeated barrage of eggs. Yondu must be feeling it ten times more intensely, ten times more keenly: the squidgy globes pushed deep into his rectum, held there by the lock of his muscles.

Kraglin clears his throat. “Y'took 'em all,” he says, voice quivery as the rest of him. Warmth fluffs around his head like a well-whipped meringue. His man, carrying his eggs. His, his, _his._

Yondu doesn't have the same instincts. He lifts his hips, twisting from side to side as Kraglin flops loose. He releases his lungful in a sharp moan when no eggs follow.

“G-gonna be a strain to get them out...”

“Uh.” Kraglin thumbs at the door, as Yondu unpeels from sweaty fur and stands. There's a tremble in his knees that renews Kraglin's pride, before Yondu starts his staggering shamble for the bathroom. “Want me to...?”

Yondu twists at the waist. The eggs squabble in his innards; he winces, and turns the rest of his body to match. He's uncaring about his nudity, the brand stamps on his chest, even that crinkly scar that branches along his spine in a jagged silver lightning bolt. His cock hangs damp, blue-white cream clinging under the plates. Must itch something rotten, but Yondu puts off his shower and his bowel-squeezing exercises a moment longer, shooting Kraglin a discolored smirk.

“Nah. Dunno about you, but this baby recharges in 'bout an hour.” He scratches idly round his cock, rubs his pretty puffed flush of a hole. But it ain't them that catches Kraglin's eye. He's captivated by his captain's grin, repeated a hundred times, one for each carnelian eye-lens. “How long's it take that egg sac of yours to fill up again, boy?”

**Author's Note:**

> **Hope you enjoyed it! Drop me kudos and comments, plz**


End file.
